


on the way

by chashmish



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confessions, Haircuts, M/M, Pre-Relationship, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chashmish/pseuds/chashmish
Summary: “I don’t know how to do this,” Akira said.“I don’t care.”“Sae could get you someone who knows.”“You’re doing it.”“I could ruin it.”“It doesn’t matter.” In the mirror, Akechi’s eyes slid away from him to that faraway place.





	on the way

**Author's Note:**

> thissssss isssss a really old WIP i’m just cleaning up sorry if it’s spotty timeline-wise or things don’t make a lot of sense i’m aware it’s not as polished as it could or probably should be /_\ thank you for reading anyway

At first, in the aftermath, Akechi barely spoke. He seemed to be always looking outwards, and when someone called his name it would take some time for him to answer, the soft, curt response of “ _What?”_ or _“Yes?”_ or _“Sorry?”_ always sounding half-indignant, half-weary, as if he expected a blow or a barb.

It had forgotten Akechi, the city, in a way that made Akira feel slightly sick, but it was necessary to take precautions, anyway. It wasn’t too hard to disguise him, mostly because everything Akechi was accustomed to doing at that point was a disguise. Akira was fascinated by it, the sheer scale of the manipulation, at the meticulous way Akechi had cut asunder all the parts of him that didn’t belong.

So, contacts, and a face mask, and new-old clothes Sae had procured from somewhere, and…

Akira wanted to know how much of Akechi was real. The need for it was like a lump in his throat or a long-suffering cold, a sensation that wouldn’t go away even if sometimes he forgot it existed.

Once he’d ventured to ask about the shell-shocked look on Akechi’s face in that engine room, when his bullet had fired to no effect. In the confusion afterwards there had been no time to question him about it. He had found Akechi only because when Sae let it slip that lately Akechi had taken to skulking around Inokashira, Akira became a ghost there, too, haunting the park on the afternoons he could, waiting and watching. So it was half-coincidence and half-calculation when he’d caught sight of Akechi, sitting stiffly on a bench in the cold air– a hood over his head and a mask on his face, but Akechi nonetheless.

Akira, trying to be delicate, said carefully, “What was supposed to ha–”

“It was supposed to have closed.” Akechi’s voice was so different now; he was not happy to see Akira, was clearly waiting for him to leave, was staring fixedly ahead.

“Look at me,” Akira said, not intending for his voice to come out as forceful as it did. He needed to see Akechi’s face.

Akechi turned to him, gaze blank; did it really make a difference? _Yes,_ Akira thought. He liked when he could see Akechi’s eyes. “The door was between us–”

“Yes.”

“You would have been–”

“Yes."

“Akechi!”

“Oh,” Akechi said, voice weary with contempt, “shut up.”

* * *

That weird little park visit at Inokashira had become one more, and then another. Once he’d brought Morgana, and then Akechi had more-or-less not spoken at all, so from then on he’d come alone, despite Morgana’s worriedly-expressed concern– not only for Akira, but for Akechi, too.

Of course Akira wanted Akechi back at Leblanc. (Sojiro needed all the customers he could get.) But it was because Akira was selfish, mostly, and felt the need in the back of his throat once again to discern the truth. All those things Akechi had said, about how nice it felt to sit in Leblanc, about the atmosphere…

During one of those strange afternoons, he’d procured a thermos full of coffee he’d made, and passed it to Akechi wordlessly.

When he’d gotten it back from him the thermos was empty. So Akechi really did like Akira’s coffee. After Akira knew that, leading Akechi to Leblanc was easy.

“I’ll be going,” Akechi said, another evening, sitting in his usual chair in the café, pushing his now-empty cup forward.

“You could have a plate of curry,” Akira said.

“Thank you for the meal,” Akechi said when he’d finished that.

“You could come upstairs,” Akira said.

“Why am I here, again?” Akechi said flatly after they’d climbed up to the attic and had loudly been informed that they’d woken Morgana from a nap.

“We could play a video game,” said Akira.

And when that was over and it was getting dark– “I have a futon,” Akira said.

“Ah,” said Akechi. “My sincerest congratulations.”

Akira rolled his eyes. “I mean, stay the night.”

Akechi said nothing.

“Come on,” Akira said. “Why not?”

Akechi looked at him, said “No,” and left to make his train.

* * *

“How is he doing?” said Haru once. Akira had asked her to meet him there in Leblanc; he was starkly terrified of losing them all. He thought, often and with great trepidation, of returning home. She was stirring her coffee with an indefinable expression on her face.

“He’s an idiot,” said Akira.

Haru smiled, slightly. She took a sip and appeared to wait for him to elaborate.

Akira took a breath. “But he’s fine, I think.”

“Hm,” Haru said, looking to the side, her gaze distant and contemplative. “That’s… good.”

* * *

The abrupt removal of the reason to keep up a pretense had definitely affected Akechi’s speech. Subtly, he was rougher around the edges, his words sharper and his cadence less formal. Akira liked it. He liked it so much that he felt vaguely guilty about it. There was just something so satisfying about the simple matter of hearing Akechi swear under his breath when his phone slipped out of his hands or he realized he’d forgotten something.

They kept meeting in even stranger places, on Akechi’s insistence: the fishing pond, Big Bang Burger, the train station, the library. They took a lot of walks around town that began and ended in the same place, looping circles. It was strange and nice to see Akechi where Akira had never seen him before.

They didn’t always talk, but when they did they fought, sometimes. One time it began because Akechi told him that he didn’t even own a laptop anymore.

“Why,” Akira had said incredulously.

“There’s no need to job-search when I have my arrangement with Sae.” Akira was not privy to the details of this arrangement, neither party involved seemed very open to discussing it. Akechi continued, “I only used it for the news and to maintain my own personal affairs; I don’t care about the news now and I don’t have any affairs.”

“You have affairs,” Akira said.

“I have nothing.”

“You have this,” Akira said, gesturing to the space between them.

Akechi looked at him, then back down, and muttered something.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Look at me.”

Akechi did, calmly. “I said, _a farce._ "

“Screw you,” Akira said.

Akechi snorted and looked back down.

“What do you think this is about?” Akira said, stopping in the street.

“Oh,” Akechi said, face turning dark, “I know. Your guilt. Your savior complex. Your _infatuation_ with–”

“That’s _your_ guilt talking,” Akira said. “Why even spend time with me if that’s what you think?”

“I consider it charitable,” Akechi said, reaching to pull at gloves, stopping when he remembered his hands were bare. “I’m sure you must feel better about yourself now.”

“I just want to _know_ you,” Akira snapped.

“This is me,” Akechi said, a cold smile on his lips.

Akira looked away. “Yeah, right.”

They kept walking, for a while, silent until Akira muttered a complaint about the cold, and Akechi responded with an affirming murmur, and later on when it was time for them to part Akechi said, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Akira said.

“I like–” Akechi coughed. “I do like this.”

“Yeah,” Akira said. He fiddled with his fringe.

“Right,” Akechi replied.

“Then I’ll see you later,” said Akira.

Akechi smiled, just barely. “Yes,” he said.

* * *

Interview transcripts compiled by dedicated fans. Old blog posts– oh, such an embarrassment to have those dug up! Video compilations of his interviews, numbered likes and dislikes in equal measure. News articles with quotes peppered in from a real prince. Twitter accounts that tracked his doings. Long threads of baseless gossip. Clips from commercials for vanity products, and all of it false.

* * *

Akira didn’t know where Akechi stayed. When he asked Sae, she told him that she checked up on him often, made sure that he had kind neighbors, sometimes sent Makoto over with food. “He’s not alone,” she told Akira.

Akira called his parents, a long conversation, with pleas for patience on both sides, but in the end, finally, the outcome he’d wanted: he was staying in Tokyo for the summer.

He just needed a little more time.

* * *

Akira was hooked on the truth of Akechi. At the library he brought up titles and pushed and pushed past polite deflections until Akechi finally let loose with criticism, to hear the turn in his voice and see the way he rolled his eyes. They still fought, and even though Akira was angry enough, sometimes, to forget himself, he still liked the way Akechi spoke his mind.

And at the same time there were things he began to notice, that he couldn’t help noticing.

Akechi sometimes reached up to rub a strand of hair between his fingers and brushed aside his bangs, when he was angry, with an irritated swat, and tugged frequently at his earlobe. Sometimes Akira wanted to do stupid things like reach over and kiss the tip of Akechi’s ear, to brush his hair away from his neck for him or tie it back with a band. He had big ears– it was one of the ridiculous things Akira’s mind would catch on and repeat, over and over. 

He texted Futaba, once: _Akechi has big ears._ It was easier, with her, when they joked about it.

Her reply: _is that what youre into now or something_

* * *

It was rare, now, for Akechi to show up to Leblanc on his own; Akira took notice when he stepped through the door and pulled his mask off his face to reveal the grim line of his mouth.

“Hey, what’s up?” Akira asked, leaning forward on the counter.

“People keep looking at me,” said Akechi.

“...Oh?”

Akechi stepped forward, and said, calmly, “I want you to cut my hair.”

* * *

Spirited into the attic, Akira recovered an extra hand towel; he tucked it around Akechi’s neck like a poorly-placed fuzzy ascot that spread out to his shoulders. He held, warily, a pair of scissors that Akechi had given him, with the brief explanation: “From a neighbor.”

“It smells like cat,” Akechi said, about the towel.

“I didn’t touch it!” Morgana protested from the corner.

“Well, it’s all I have.” Akira could only think about how he had no idea how to do this– you needed training, or something like that, right?

It occurred to him that the scissors, though blunt, could do serious damage if he jabbed them into Akechi’s temple– _fuck, that’s disgusting–_ or if Akechi reached up and pinned him to the side, took them from him and held them to his throat– _no–_

 _Fuck you for making me think this,_ he thought, with no anger, only sorrow. _Fuck._

Akira turned slightly to give Morgana a look, and Morgana stood up quickly. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t mess up Akechi, Akira.”

“Ha,” said Akira, swallowing.

When Mona was gone, Akira’s eyes met Akechi’s in the small mirror Akira had placed on his desk. Akechi was pretty, like they said; his hair was something that Ryuji had complained about and that Ann had made excuses for, so very long ago. Akira had always liked it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Akira said. He took a strand and rubbed it between his fingers self-indulgently.

Akechi ignored the manhandling. “I don’t care.”

“Sae could get you someone who knows.”

“You’re doing it.”

“I could ruin it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” In the mirror, Akechi’s eyes slid away from him to that faraway place.

“Hey,” Akira said. “Look at me.”

Akechi didn’t turn, so Akira stepped around to the front of his chair, and they regarded each other, Akechi’s gaze steady.

“You’re okay with this, really?”

Akechi’s voice was soft but decisive when he said “Yes.” The way he was looking at Akira made Akira’s head threaten to begin spinning.

He went back to safety behind the chair and stared with silent despair at the back of Akechi’s head. His hair was cut in layers, which Akira found to be characteristically complicated and unnecessary– overgrown now. He was due for a trim, but Akechi had made it clear– he wanted something that would render him nearly unrecognizable from who he was before. 

It was all right, after he Googled instructions and made Akechi wait while he watched a video on his phone, after the weight of the scissors in his hands was a little more familiar. Akira was adept at picking locks and other delicate operations, after all. He pinned up a section of Akechi’s hair, and combed gently, and took a breath as he made the first deliberate cut.

The hair fell to the floor. Akechi flinched in the mirror.

“Okay?” Akira said immediately.

“It’s fine,” Akechi said. He looked pained. “It isn’t you.”

Akira kept working, sometimes breathless with the effort of the restraint, of the focus, that it took. Akechi didn’t say anything, until Akira had around two inches off, when he said “Once I was asked to do a shampoo commercial.”

“God,” said Akira. “Did you?”

“No,” Akechi said, watching more strands fall, “but I considered it.”

It took Akira longer than it should have; he was nervous despite Akechi’s apparent apathy, so it was after close to an hour had passed that he quietly said, “All right” in an awkward attempt to conclude the exercise.

He gazed at Akechi’s now-bare neck and felt a strange urge to cry. Something compelled him to reach over and brush away the stray, short strands that had caught there. Akechi flinched again.

They both looked in the mirror. If before Akechi was gentle-looking, elegant and charming, now he was bitingly handsome, somehow more honest, with the cut of his cheekbones clearly visible and with less there to distract from the intensity of the look in his eyes.

“It makes you seem older,” Akira said, because it was something to say.

Akechi looked at him in that disdainful way of his. “I’m older than you.”

“Yeah, well, didn’t look like it before,” Akira said, and couldn’t help but smile. “I think I did a pretty good job.”

He reached over, fingers brushing Akechi’s shoulder just before he could place a hand on it, but then with a quick, sudden movement Akechi stood up. The towel fell to the ground.

Akechi turned to look at him, some kind of strange anguish in his eyes. Akira swallowed; he’d done something wrong, but what–

“I keep taking from you,” Akechi said. “I keep doing it and I can’t even thank you.”

“No,” Akira said, “you aren’t–”

“But I wanted you to do it,” Akechi said desperately. His gaze flickered over to the scissors in Akira’s hand. “There was no one else–” He seemed to cut himself off, swallowing, and Akira watched him draw a breath.

“I’m right here,” Akira said, but Akechi had already closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said, and brushed his shirt clean with his hands, and then he was turning and he was leaving again, and Akira could only watch him go.

* * *

All the things Akira wanted didn’t matter. All the imagined universes in his head in which things were _okay_ were just that– imaginary. 

It felt like hiding, like dishonesty. He thought, always, of Akechi’s blank looks, of the way it looked like it was taking all his strength to keep himself inside himself. What would Akechi think of him if he knew?

What did Akechi think of him _now_?

And then Akira remembered something.

“Your _infatuation_ ," Akechi had said that day, his voice laced with scorn, and he hadn’t been looking at Akira at all.

And Akira realized– Akechi already knew.

* * *

He made Makoto give him Akechi’s address and showed up on a Sunday afternoon. It was a nice-enough apartment building; there were potted plants outside his neighbor’s door.

Akechi opened the door, and Akira said, “I don’t want to lie to you.”

Akechi looked at him, surprise evident on his face. “Why are you… What is it?”

“I care about you, for real,” said Akira, “and there’s no point in hiding things from you anyway. I know you know me. I know you do because–”

“Akira,” Akechi said.

“–we’re not that different,” Akira continued, stubbornly, “but I have to tell you, because it’s not fair, so no matter what happens. I have to say it. Because even if I’m wrong and you haven’t figured it out, I have to tell you–

“Akira!”

Akira wouldn't stop, not for anything. “I have to tell you how I feel about you!”

He realized too late that he had raised his voice.

“ _Akira,”_ said Akechi, his eyes closed like he was in pain, and immediately Akira felt the sting of regret and fear, because he had made Akechi look like that. “Right now, I can’t–”

“I’m sorry,” Akira said, feeling miserable, tasting tragedy in his mouth, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to– _apologize_ to me. I’m not– it’s–”

Feeling his hands shake, Akira wanted to run, closed his eyes–

“Akira.” A command. “ _Look_ at me.”

And Akira did.

Akechi’s real smile was a little rueful, reflecting the cautious optimism of a war survivor. “Don’t apologize,” Akechi said again. “And don’t–” He steeled himself, and then reached over and brushed his hand against Akira’s, awkward and hesitantly tender. “Don’t make me say it.”

Akira smiled, and felt his heartbeat even out, felt the promise of more.

“I won’t,” he said.

They looked at each other, and finally, Akira _saw_.


End file.
